


It's Not the Heat, It's the Humidity

by GythaOgg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Hell Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GythaOgg/pseuds/GythaOgg
Summary: Here's the thing about Hell: you're a damned soul . . . a SOUL . . . so you're not physically there. Your spirit is there, sure, and your spirit can be broken, but the physical stuff is all an illusion. Once you realize that, you kinda win that game. Once you understand that you're not actually wearing your meatsuit anymore, it doesn't really matter when they slice it up, or burn it off, or all the other gory little tortures they inflict on your body. And boy, do they get gory.





	It's Not the Heat, It's the Humidity

**Author's Note:**

> Dean finally opens up to someone about Hell, and why it's so, well, hellish. This is basically a monologue. Mentions of violence and brutality, but nothing particularly graphic. If that stuff is a trigger for you, please skip this story.

Here's the thing about Hell: you're a damned soul . . . a SOUL . . . so you're not physically there. Your spirit is there, sure, and your spirit can be broken, but the physical stuff, that's all an illusion. Once you realize that, you kinda win that game. Once you understand that you're not actually wearing your meatsuit anymore, it doesn't really matter when they slice it up, or burn it off, or all the other gory little tortures they inflict on your body. And boy, do they get gory. 

But that's when the real torture starts. See, the violence on the rack doesn't stop. No, they keep doing that shit, even after you stop feeling the pain. They peel your skin off, burn you, carve you up, soak you, freeze you, and on and on and on. Except now that the pain doesn't bother you, they start doing all of that in the same order, every single time. They make it predictable. Routine. They keep plugging away, day after day, year after year, until you're bored out of your goddamn mind. 

Eventually, it's worse than the pain ever was. 

Then they torture your brain, too. Your patience. Your imagination. Your ability to enjoy anything at all. They comb through your memories and find everything you ever loved, and that's what they use. They overload your senses with your favorite smells, your favorite tastes, your favorite sounds, until you're sickened by them. They tell you every awful, disgusting, terrible thing the people you love have ever done. They spoil the ending to every movie you ever wanted to watch, every book you ever wanted to read, every TV show you've ever been interested in. They mangle your favorite songs again and again and again. They never leave you in peace for even one second, not for years, and then they leave you completely alone, total isolation, until the silence starts to drive you insane. They pound and twist and shred every good memory you ever had, every single happy thought, until you hate it. 

They ruin EVERYTHING. 

Because it's Hell.


End file.
